


Pure in His Eyes

by AntiMaterielGirl



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 3
Genre: Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Masturbation, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-07
Updated: 2016-01-07
Packaged: 2018-05-09 22:50:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5558540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AntiMaterielGirl/pseuds/AntiMaterielGirl





	Pure in His Eyes

I can’t help it – the only way I can make love to him is in my mind. Every time I’m alone at night, my hands wander southward, rubbing fervently in the quest for relief.

Satiation is impossible. There is no substitute for a warm body next to you, touching you, inside of you. Out of all the men I’d had, I’d never found what I was looking for. Come to think of it, I don’t even know what I’m looking for. All I know is…I haven’t found it yet.

So, I settle. My own hand is good enough, when I’m desperate to feel good. No man has been able to get me there quicker than I could myself, so I’ve given up the chase for now. I could head to the bar like I’ve done so many other nights, but I don’t want to risk coming home and saying anything stupid. I don’t want to risk finding someone willing to screw an empty slut like me, then coming home fresh-fucked, looking at him like I’d give anything for it to’ve been him instead of some nameless scavver.

The night is eerily quiet. When I head off to bed, he’s downstairs, farting around with his shotgun – probably cleaning it, although we hadn’t been out in a few days. Weapon maintenance seems to calm him, and shortly after I bought his contract, I let him know that if I didn’t give him any orders, then he was welcome to do whatever he wanted with his time, as long as he didn’t go too far away. I know I should just turn off the light and go to sleep, but I can’t. My brain tortures me with how his skin would feel on mine, the words he might whisper in my ear, if he’d be gentle – or if he’d just take me like a wild beast, use me like the filthy slut I am. I feel small and weak and helpless near him – like I need him to protect me from the world – and I like it.  I touch myself and moan his name, consumed by my fantasy.

“You called?” I freeze with my hand at my crotch, an unmistakable bulge underneath the blanket. Breath caught in my throat, I open my eyes slowly, terrified of what I might find. The door is open; he’s staring in at me with intense interest.

Panicked, I search my mind for an excuse, but I know that it’s obvious to him what I’ve been doing. My secret is out, my feelings for him finally laid bare. He steps into the room, and my heart is pounding so hard that I’m afraid it’ll burst out of my chest. He crouches next to the bed.

“I, I -” His hand slips under the blanket, pushes mine away. He parts me and strokes gently, gazing into my eyes. My shock gives way to pure pleasure – my head falls back, and I moan long and low, gripping the sheets tightly. I can feel him watching me, watching my face, waiting for me to come.

I feel the tightness, the heat gathering between my legs, and I push my hips toward his hand earnestly. I bite my lip and he strokes faster, presses into me a little harder. I can hear him breathing heavily, and I know that he’s aroused, that what I’ve wanted for the past six months is just within my reach. “Oh, yes…oh, there!” I wail as wave after wave of pleasure courses through my body, the gift of his skillful hand.

I twitch, forehead wet, chest heaving. He gets to his feet slowly, and after a lingering gaze at my satisfied smile, he turns, opens the door, and clicks off the light. “Wait -” _This could be my only chance_. “Please…don’t go.” He stops, hand on the doorknob. I can sense him wavering. “You – were listening to me.”

“Yes.” He closes the door; I can hear him turning, shifting in the dark to face me.

“How long have you – “

“A long time,” he rasps. “The walls are thin. I…couldn’t help hearing.”

“Why now?”

 “Because I got tired of jerking off to my imagination.” He replies, crudely. My pulse quickens. _He wants me, too._

“You don’t have to do that anymore,” I whisper, as thoughts of him pleasuring himself while listening to me rise to the surface of my mind. With those words I hear rustling, the dull thump of boots tossed to the floor.

This has to be a dream. He doesn’t want me – he can’t. I’ve been used too many times. I deserve the emptiness, the coldness, the couplings devoid of warmth and love. At least Nova got paid for what she did. I took scraps – brief eye contact, sweet nothings, a half-minute’s pleasure, the chance to forget who I really am, for a short time. Too many nights I’d stumble back from the bar smelling like liquor, hopelessness, and the sweat of other desperate souls. I’d take pleasure wherever I could get it – a rented room, a bathroom stall, outside against the back wall of the bar. There were so many that the names and faces start to blend together. The shame is almost unbearable. I am soiled. Dirty. Nothing can make me clean again.

The sheets shift, and the bed creaks as he lowers himself onto it, lowers himself next to me. The heat of him is intense. We hesitantly reach out to each other, desperate for intimate touch. His chest is rough and taut; my hand explores the edges of his torn skin as he exhales noisily. He grasps my breast and kneads it, then gently rolls my nipple between his thumb and forefinger.

“You don’t want me,” I say, with a lump in my throat.

“I do.”

“I’m a – “ _Slut. Whore._

“Shh…” he whispers, pressing a finger to my lips. “Don’t say that.” If he’s heard my moans through the wall, then he’s heard me crying; heard the names I call myself in the middle of the night when I come home after doing something – or rather, _someone_ – I regret.

“But I’m–“ _Soiled. Dirty._

“But nothing.” He caresses my cheek. “You are beautiful. Precious.” _If he can still think that after so many nights, so many men…then I don’t deserve him at all._

“I don’t deserve you.” I have tears in my eyes.

“You do.”

Then his hand clasps softly around my wrist and guides it down his muscular body. I grasp him and start to massage up and down. “Slower…” he whispers, almost moaning. He cups my cheek with his enormous hand, pulls my mouth to his, and before I can react, his tongue pries my mouth open, searching for mine. I squeeze him a little tighter and he moans in my mouth, pushing his hips forward to meet my enthusiastic strokes. “Your hand…” he gasps. “So...soft…”

“Mmm…” He pulls away, kisses me chastely. He gently pushes my hand away from him, and I rest it on his arm, squeezing his firm bicep. “I want to feel you.” he says, “on the inside.” He pushes my shoulder, easing me flat on my back, then parts my legs and comes to rest between them. He nudges me down there, and then – “Don’t worry Miss Elle,” he whispers. “I’ll be gentle.” _Oh, he said my name…_

I shiver. _It’s been so long since I had anything but my own hand, too long._ I find myself thinking that it would be better if he took me, if he were rough; if, like all the others, he didn’t want to look me in the eyes. It would serve me right. He had every right to want to see me hurt, see me suffer for every time that I’d come home to him used, thrown away by another man – because I fell victim to shame. Because I didn’t have the courage to tell him that I wanted him all along…

He enters me slowly, a low groan escaping his lips as I envelop him tightly. I moan with need, squeezing him even tighter, my legs instinctively wrapping around him. “Yes…” I murmur. He thrusts softly, slowly, delighting at my soft cries, my furtive whimpers of desire. My eyes adjust to the gloom, and I can see his silhouette above me, moving back and forth in a gentle rhythm.

I breathe him in, his scent. He smells like gun oil, like leather and dust. He feels rough and hard, just like I imagined. But his touch is gentle, careful, as if I were a delicate piece of glass that would shatter if not handled with care. I’m no better than a common whore, but he’s making love to me like I’m a virgin on our wedding night. “You feel…so good…” he whispers. The only sounds are his soft grunts, my impassioned moans, and the gentle creak of the bed frame as he fills me, over and over again.

I feel tightness, a burning inside me, and thrust my hips up to meet his. His breath quickens; he thrusts, harder, faster, deeper. I cry out his name as I come, my fingernails digging into the flesh of his back, but instead of crying out in pain, he stiffens, shouts and buries himself inside me.

He hovers above me briefly, chest heaving. He slides out of me and eases down onto the bed beside me. I curl up next to him, my head on his chest, his arm curling around my back, pressing me into him. “So…” I ask, “– was I as good as you imagined?”

“No,” he says. “Better.”

I know now that my past means little to him. But I find myself wanting to ask for forgiveness, even though I know that he would tell me that there is nothing for him to forgive. I wrap my arm around him and hug him tightly. “You are too good for me.” He sighs and kisses the top of my head.

“That’s not true, and you know it.”

They say out in the wasteland that ghouls soil whatever they touch. That if a human sleeps with one, they’re tainted; untouchable. But that can’t be true. For so long I’ve felt dirty, filthy – like no one could ever love me. To every other man I might have been no more than a warm wet hole – convenient and all too willing. But to him, I remained as pure as the driven snow.

With his gentle touch, his soft words, his tender love, I am reborn.

I am cleansed.


End file.
